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by Doug Pinkston Often I consider the follies of our great, sad city, And feel drawn to action, But I am like a ladybug on the Great Walls, Perplexed with dissatisfaction, Unable to effect with my tiny hand the dissolution Of a single sand. Perhaps with my loudest manic cry I might reach the quietest corner Of some brave considering heart, And remind that heart of our promise: Of the brief light which flickers in all humankind, That illuminates compromise and silence. But that is asking too much! Is that asking too much? The blind injustices and wars have been, and will be, long after my wings have expired, Fueled by a more insistent wind. And you, my friend, are but another bothersome bug Maneuvering along a summer flower, Drawn to the same perplexing fire. How far is it to the nearest star? That is how far it must seem, these assumptions, to a considering mind. How lifeless is the latest offering to the grave? That is the challenge: to stir a comment from a corpse. To awake the dead. To awake a field of the Dead. Copyright 2019. All rights reserved.
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